


How Not to Conduct a Robbery

by Kaelixi



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Masturbation, Robbery, Stabdads, angry talk of poptarts, dave attempts to rob his house, it doesnt turn out so well, karkats a mobsters son, not mature yet but it will need the rating, the rating on this will probably go up, there will hopefully be porn eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaelixi/pseuds/Kaelixi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*****ON HIATUS*****</p><p>You slam your palm against your forehead, embarrassed for whoever was on the other side of that inconvenient slab of mahogany. Who the hell was this idiot? He obviously didn't have the faintest clue how to successfully break into and raid a home quickly and efficiently.</p><p>In which Dave Strider is a member of his brother's crime syndicate, Karkat Vantas is a mobster's son, and Dave seriously doesn't know how the hell to rob a house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ==> Karkat: Hear a Noise

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this fic while I was reading a book.
> 
> I don't know how, it has absolutely nothing to do with what I was reading.
> 
> First chapter is from Karkat's POV
> 
> Its a little bit short, but I'm writing it on my phone, I'm gomen
> 
> There will be more soon

You sit up on the couch quickly, awoken rudely from your sleep by a loud thump from upstairs. You swing your legs over the edge of the sofa, grabbing the bad you have leaning against the side. You stand quickly, raising it in defense against whatever was making that noise. It's Tuesday; Dad wouldn't even be home for another week, so there was no fucking way it was him making all that damn racket. Personally, you think the whole bat-at-the-ready bullshit is fucking cliché, but your dad insisted. You would have thought he would have preferred having you keep a knife or five underneath you pillow at night, or at least something along those lines.

You make your way carefully up the steps, wincing slightly at every creak the weary old wood makes underneath your cotton-clad toes. Though, you doubt anything short of a nuclear bomb going off on the front lawn would make enough noise to be heard over the ruckus your home intruder was causing upstairs. You mean, damn, seriously? What was the fucker doing, throwing electronical equipment across the room?

Reaching the top of the steps, you freeze where you stand as the incessant noise suddenly stops. You're suddenly very aware of how loud your breathing is right at this moment. You slowly turn your head, staring at your closed bedroom door, acutely aware of the fact that there was most definitely someone poking around your things. You are not okay with this. You are most certainly the opposite of okay with this. You are negatively okay with this. You offer your past self silent praise for not being a complete dumbass like usual and sleeping on the couch in the living room instead.

You stand completely still, ignoring the cramps threatening to attack at any moment, waiting for what feels like an eternity, though it probably couldn't have been longer than a minute. Your heart-rate quickens as you hear something clatter to the floor on the other side of the door. You hear a faint mumbling, followed by a sudden shout.

"Shit, shit, shit, SHIT!" You hea the string of profanities just as what sounds like a much larger object slams against the door before colliding with the floor, followed by the unmistakable sound of many smaller objects crash to the ground, as well as the cacophony of shattering glass. You slam your palm against your forehead, embarrassed for whoever was on the other side of that inconvenient slab of mahogony. Who the hell was this idiot? He obviously didn't have the faintest clue of how to successfully break into and raid a home quietly and efficiently.

Ther's a silence on the other side of the door once more, and you let out a sigh, eyes immediately shooting open wider as you realize that this fucknut probably heard you. You take a cautious step forwards, placing your hand gently on the old-fashioned brass doorknob. Frowning slightly, you feel it wiggle in your grib. These damn loose fasteners. You've been wanting to replace these doorknobs anyway, maybe with something fancier. Whatever, you'll get to that after you deal with this shitstain going through your personal belongings.

Well, Vantas, it's now or never. You turn the dorknob quickly, stepping back slightly to allow it to swing open. Of course, you forgot something had landed against it, and were unprepared for the sudden weight against your shins, forcing you to fall backward into the hallway. The back of your head collides painfully with the banister, and you land roughly on your ass. "FUCK." You shout the expletive without a second thought, raising your hand to nurse the back of your head, dropping the bat. It clamors noisily down the stairs, causing you to wince with every slam against the delicate paneling of the steps. Damn it, you'll probably have to fix those, too. Lovely.

You suddenly remember the fact that there was an intruder in your room and you did indeed just open the foor and rudely burst in on them, and there was still the unresolved matter of what the fuck was on your legs. Your eyes open, your expression still twisted into a constant grimace from both the pain from the blow and the fact that there was a dude on your legs.

There, resting on your legs, was the goddamned douchecanoe who broke into your bedroom at what-the-fuck o'clock in the morning, and promptly assaulted and broke most of, if not all, of your private personal shit.

Not even the almighty god of douchebaggery himself could have surpassed the great and powerful ass-fuckery that was this prick. His blond hair fell messily in front of his eyes (probably from his fall, your subconscious notes, unhelpful as always), and his mouth was twisted downwards slightly, barely perceptibly, in pain. His eyes were wide behind his aviators, staring at you - wait. Aviators? Who the fuck even wears those anymore? And inside too, what the hell?

Your gaze travels downwards slightly, ignoring the fact that he hasn't broken his stare yet. You methodically note how he's practically laying on top of you, arms resting just below your crotch, obviously because he had them braced for impact with the floor. Well, sorry dude, the floor was not what he had landed on. His knee was wedged between your legs, practically straddling your lower left leg

Glaring down at him, you grit your teeth, gaze returning to his and, hopefully, burning a hole through those stupid fucking shades. Your hands are clenched into fists at your sides, and you stare at him for a moment before speaking. Your voice is a low growl, forced out in bursts through your clenched teeth, rough from the fact that your vocal chords are tight from rage. A knot forces its way into your throat.

"Are you going to fucking get off of me?"


	2. ==> Dave: Break Some Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave tries to break into a house.  
> It does not go over well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few more chapters written, ill post them soon  
> Dave's POV

This was supposed to be an easy job. Get in, get out, get paid. You had even spent an hour earlier in the day casing the neighborhood to make sure you found the place that would get you the best shit. The shit that you could pawn off onto some unsuspecting sucker who doesn’t know the real value of this crap. You’re pretty sure you could pass off a bag of yarn as some sort of rare textile from some made up country, if you found the right buyer.

After you had found a nice little house on the corner of the street, driveway empty, you had checked each of the windows. They were all locked, except one on the second floor. The view inside was blocked by thick black curtains, but you figured it would be easy enough to come back later, probably at some point after midnight.

Damn, were you wrong or what.

You had come back at around three in the morning, standing at the bottom of the brick wall, looking up at the window. You don’t get why you spend so much time looking up at the entrances like this, it’s not like you can see inside. And not just because of those damn drapes. Your shades impaired your vision in the daylight, you don’t know why you insist on wearing them in the hours of the day where there wasn’t any fucking light. The driveway was still empty, like before, so there was probably nobody home. You had scaled the wall, using god-knows-what for handholds (you were trained to do this shit, don’t judge), and had opened the window, swinging inside.

Now, here you were, bag in hand, standing in the middle of some dude’s bedroom. You have no idea what the fuck you’re going to do next. You let out a dejected sigh, put slightly off by the cleanliness of the room. Usually when you climbed into a bedroom, there were valuables thrown around every which-way, phones on the nightstands, iPods and other shit on every fucking surface. This place was creepily empty. You scratch your head, taking a look around. Lining the walls were bookshelves.

Usually in a bedroom, at least from your experience, the bookshelves were where people would place things, for display and all that jazz. Not here, nope. The bookshelves were filled with - surprisingly - books.

Old books, with their bindings worn from years of use, a thin layer of dust coating the shelves, except in a few choice places, where the books were probably pulled out often. How many books did this guy even have? The walls were lined with them, the only bare wall space in the spot between the ceiling and the top of the shelves, where... oh, hello there.

You guess you’ve found where the guy keeps his valuable shit.

You step forward into the room, away from the window. You drop your bag, forgetting about the loot that was already inside, and you wince at the loud thump it makes. Thank god there’s nobody home to hear it. This is the first job your Bro has let you come on your own, there is no way you’re going to fuck this up. You shake your shoulders, getting rid of your jitters, and step forward. There’s a computer desk at the base of one of the bookshelves, on the side of the room opposite to the door.

You raise an eyebrow, shrugging before grabbing the first electronic thing and tossing it across the room, ignoring the loud noise it makes as it collides with the other bookshelves. You do this over and over, until the desk is clear, though you had taken the laptop and set it down gently on the bed to your right. Hey, you care about nice electronics, lay off.

You climb onto the desk, taking a look at the items on top of the case. Small trinkets, likely valuable, a few made of glass. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a playing card, face-down. You shrug, picking it up out of impulse and stuffing it into your pocket. You hear a creaking noise, and you freeze, your blood turning ice cold.

You did not make that noise. You are absolutely positive you did not make that noise. You stay still for another few minutes, trying to clear your head, steady your heaving breaths. Eventually you’re placated, and you turn back to what you’re doing, accidentally knocking something to the floor. You suppress a curse, still wary of whatever the hell made that noise outside of the bedroom door. Kneeling on the desk, you reach down, picking up the item that fell, surprised by how close to the ground the desk actually was.

Straightening your legs, you stand back up, turning around to reach on top of the shelf, silently cursing your lack of balance, tipping uneasily forward. Your eyes widen as you feel the bookshelf creaking forward, and you can feel your center of balance shifting. Shit. You are definitely going to fall.

“Shit, shit, shit, SHIT!” You shout reflexively, bracing yourself as the soles of your feet leave the surface of the table, jumping backwards to get out of the path of the falling block of books and death,

Okay, you’re exaggerating, but you’re pretty sure if that thing landed on you, you wouldn’t be conscious anymore.

You intake a sharp breath from pain as your back collides with the door, landing on your ass and wincing as all of the objects from the top of the bookcase fall to the ground, sighing as you hear glass shattering, and you close your eyes, leaning your head against the door and you think about what would have happened if there was actually someone home right at this moment.

What. The fuck. Was that.

You heard a sigh outside of the door, you are absolutely certain that that was what that noise was. You shift slowly, ignoring the pain in your back as you turn. You place your hands against the wood, kneeling in front of the door and resting your ear against it, trying to hear whatever was on the other side.

You realized too late that the doorknob was turning. 

You fall forward, eyes wide as you collide with something. Oh shit... That is a dude you just landed on. He falls backwards, and you wince once more as you hear him collide with something on the wall. “FUCK.” you would chuckle at his immediate shout, but you’re too busy landing on top of him.

Oh, shit. You look up at him, and your eyes widen. His face is set in a grimace, his hand nursing the back of his head, probably from where it smashed into whatever the hell was on the wall when you pretty much tackled him in his own goddamn home. 

Oh. Um... Well. He's actually... really attractive. Fuck. 

"Are you going to fucking get off of me?"

You blink suddenly realizing your position. You fight the blush forming on your face, which just so happened to be uncomfortably (comfortably, your subconscious whispers. shut the fuck up subconscious.) close to his crotch. And you were straddling him. Oops.

“Oh. Uh, yeah, sure, sorry dude.” You sit up, standing quickly. Oh, wait. You just broke into this guy’s house. And tried to steal his shit. So much for first impressions.

“Why the fuck are you in my house? Is your think pan just so incredibly rotten that you can’t even stop staring at the guy whose house you just happened to break into, destroying half of his shit in the process? Well? Are you going to fucking answer me?” His hands were in tight fists at his sides, but you reach a hand down to help him off the floor and to his feet. He stares at it warily, before reaching up and clutching your hand. 

Once he’s standing, you shift awkwardly, staring down at your feet. “Hey man, chill out. I was just-”

“Chill out? Did you just fucking tell me to CHILL OUT?” He was seething, his teeth clenched. He takes a step forward, pressing a sharp finger to your chest. “You are in my house, going through my shit, and you want me to chill the fuck out? Maybe I would be able to chill out if you weren’t _telling_ me to chill out! There is nothing you could possibly do that could make me calm down, alright, _dude_?” he takes another step forward, almost pressed against you, staring up at you through glaring slits that were probably eyes at some point. You can’t help but smirk. This makes him angrier apparently. “Did you just fucking _smirk_ at me?”

“Whoa, dude, you have some serious fucking anger issues you have to work out. And I would be able to take you a little bit more seriously if you weren’t practically pressing yourself into my personal bubble.” 

You watch with almost uncontainable glee as a flush spreads across his cheeks, eyes widening as he steps back. “What the fuck did you steal.” 

You shrug, showing him the bag. “Nothing from you, dude. Your stuff was fucking high up, and I fell before I could get ahold of it.” You have no clue why the fuck you’re telling this kid everything about this job, but you pass it off as some sort of intuition thing.

He growls, you swear it. He fucking growls. You didn’t even know human throats were capable of making that kind of noise. You chuckle again, watching him closely through your shades while the closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself down. “Look. If you didn’t take anything, just fucking leave, and I won’t have to tell Slick about this.”

You can’t help but be slightly upset with the fact that you have to leave. Wait, what the fuck were you expecting? Were you expecting him to get over the fact that you broke into his home, went through his room, broke his shit, and want to cuddle or some shit? 

Wait a second. “Slick?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Slick. Didn’t you know whose house you even broke into, fucknuts?”

Your eyes widen. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck. Spades Slick?”

He sighs, gesturing to the sky. “Oh, gods, please help me get this shit-for-brains asshole to understand that sometimes when you break into someones house, consequences fucking happen, and sometimes that house also just so happens to be the house of Spades fucking Slick and his son.”

You just broke into the house of a big-shot mob boss. And you probably have the hots for his son. Whose house you just broke into.

Fuck.


	3. ==> Karkat: Yell At This Asshole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karkat gets a little bit pissed, Stabdad is unhelpful, and Dave just wants to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter for today
> 
> I actually already have the next one written but I'm waiting for my beta to read over it
> 
> Ill probably post chapter 4 tomorrow uw u

Why the fuck is he still here?

“Are you going to get the fuck out of my house anytime soon?” You’re standing in the middle of the hallway, your teeth clenched, trying to keep from screaming. Waking up the neighbors was the last thing you needed right now. Glaring at him, you cross your arms tightly over your chest, trying to seem imposing. You aren’t very good at it; the only reason people are intimidated by you is because of your obnoxiously loud voice. One foot is tapping impatiently on the scuffed floor, waiting for him to stop staring at you like you just told him you were the queen of england and just fucking leave already. Or say something, at least.

“Uh.” He’s still gaping at you. You think you broke him. Perfect.

“Wow, what an eloquent fucking answer. How long did it take you to think that up? I’m blown away by the great linguistic achievement you’ve made. Hold the goddamn presses, this asshole is a literary genius. ‘Uh’ will be a word uttered for months, whispered in the ears of giggling schoolgirls who-” He cuts you off. he actually stops you from speaking, placing a hand over your mouth. You’re too surprised to do anything.

“Yeah, I get the point you sarcastic little freak.” You stare at him for a moment, your mind trying to grasp that he had actually put his disgusting hand over your lips. Your body finally catches up with your mind, and you sink your teeth into the flesh of his palm.

The taste of dirt and salt on your tongue is worth it for the girlish yelp he lets out, hopping backwards. “Did you just fucking bite me?”

You roll your eyes. “No, I gave you a sensual massage with my teeth. Yes, I bit you!”

He clutches his hand to his chest, obviously trying to heep from wincing. "Why the hell did you bite me?"

"Why the hell did you break into my house?"

He stares at you for a moment, before shrugging. "Touché."

Your jaw drops open, and you prepare another rant. Your throat is going to be sore by the end of the night if you keep this up. “You didn't even answer my fucking question! You can't just waltz into someone's bedroom and break their shit, and then play it off like it's something they should just deal with! Why the hell haven't you even left yet?"

He rolls his eyes, looking at you like you were fucking stupid. "Well, it'd be pretty damn rude to just leave in the middle of a conversation wouldn't it?"

You narrow your eyes. “You did not just act like this is a normal conversation."

A slight smirk finds its way onto his face. You want to punch that damn thing clean off of his lips. “Actually, I think I did.”

You groan, turning around. “Whatever! Just.. stay there or something. I’ll be right fucking back.” You don’t know why you trusted him not to run off. You hoped he actually would run.

You step into the room across the hall, your Dad’s room. You close the door, pulling out your cellphone and leaning against the door, trying to secure at least a bit of privacy. Why you keep your cellphone in your pocket while you sleep is a mystery, even to yourself. The dial tone’s melodic sound calms you slightly. That is, until it ends and he picks up his phone.

“What the hell, kid? I’m in a meeting, someone better be on fire.”

“Dad this is serious!”

“Damn it Karkat, answer the question. Are you on fire?”

“No, but-”

“Are you pregnant?”

“No, Dad! How the fuck would that even be possible?”

“Why else would you be calling me?” The irritation is clear in his voice, and you groan.

“Dad there is a burglar in the goddamn house!”

“Did you use the baseball bat?”

“There is no way I can beat this skinny ass twerp unconscious without feeling guilty.”

“What the hell, is he still in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Use the bat.”

“No, Dad!”

“Show him your stabs?”

“ _No, Dad!_ ”

“Then I can’t fucking help you. Man the fuck up, stop being a little bitch and take care of the guy.”

“But, Dad!” A dial tone. The fucker hung up on you. You shout a colorful selection of profanities, throwing your cell phone across the room. Even when it smashes, falling to the floor in several pieces, you don’t give a single flying fuck. You throw open the door, stomping back into the hallway. You freeze when you notice that, holy shit, the douche actually did what you said. He’s sitting on the floor, eyes closed, leaning against the wall. He looks... exhausted.

You sit on the floor in front of him, crossing your legs. You reach out, tapping his shoulder. He lets out a small noise, shifting slightly, but otherwise doesn’t move. The little fucker was asleep.

You sigh, watching him for a few more minutes. You have to admit, he is a lot nicer looking when he’s sleeping. And a whole fucking lot more tolerable. The poker face he seemed to keep almost perfectly over his face, like a mask, has relaxed, and he seems a lot younger than he did before. There is no way he was any older than you. In fact, he might actually be a few months, if not a year, younger.

That settled it. There is no absolutely no chance of you tossing this kid out into the streets when it’s... god, you don’t even know what time it is. It’s too early for this shit. And the guy is obviously physically and mentally exhausted, if he was able to conk out like that while you were screaming at your Dad.

You sigh, walking walk down the stairs, swearing quietly as you stub your toe on the bat, which had come to a stop right at the bottom of the steps. You take a quick look around, grabbing a woolen blanket off of the couch you had been sleeping on earlier, and tossing it over your shoulder, carrying it up the stairs. God damn it, you have to get back in shape, there are too many steps in this house.

He still hasn’t moved when you get back, and you lay the blanket over his sleeping form. You watch him for a few moments, wondering why the hell you took pity on the asshole who broke into your room. Eh, whatever. You’ll think about it more in the morning, right now you were really fucking tired. You turn, stepping into the door, walking around a small pile of broken glass, having to step over multiple fallen objects. You wince when you see your largest bookcase, tipped over, resting on your computer desk, which...

Oh. That fuckbag actually tossed your electronics across the room.

All of the books from the shelves had fallen to the floor. Perfect, just fucking dandy. Their spines were probably broken, the pages bent. You suppress a cry of rage, and you flop down on your bed. Fuck the couch, you are not going down any more stairs tonight.

You ignore the nagging feeling in the back of your mind. The feeling that things are going to change soon. At the moment, you really don’t care. You just want to sleep. So you do.


	4. ==> Dave: Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave just wants to sleep and bros a dick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOPS  
> im sorry this took so long gomen  
> here take it

This asshole just fucking left you standing there in his hallway, dumbfounded. He actually had the nerve to tell you to wait for him to get back. What the hell? Does this kid make it a habit to just let criminals roam his house? Then again, his father is Spades _fucking_ slick, of course he’s used to criminals running around.

You watch as he slams the door across the hall from you, and you slide down the wall to the floor. God, you are so fucking tired. Bro has been working you like a dog, sending you along with his buddies to do jobs, pretty much every night for the past three weeks. You can’t even remember a time when you got more than about two hours of sleep per night, if that. In fact, you’re pretty sure you haven’t actually slept at all in... three days? You can’t even tell anymore.

He’s yelling now, something about hitting you with a baseball bat. Whatever, it’s not like you won’t be able to defend yourself against him. He looked pretty scrawny. Not that you were looking or anything.

You sigh, closing your eyes a bit. You just wanted to rest them for a moment, give them a little bit of the relaxation they were practically begging for. You hear shouty over there throw something across the room, followed by silence. Oh, wow. You had forgotten just how nice silence was. Actually silence was really...

Your train of thought stops abruptly, the warmth of the air in the hallway and the calmness of the silent air lulling you into the calm haze, darkness flashing past your eyelids as you drift into unconsciousness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When you wake up, you’re engulfed in a soft warmth. Maybe Bro actually let you go to sleep last night. Or maybe Rose stopped by and crashed here. That would make more sense, this blanket smelled way better than the shit Bro does the laundry with...

You sit up suddenly, your eyes flying open as the memories float to the surface of your mind. Any moment now, you’ll hear the wailing of sirens. You jump to your feet, prepared to make a mad dash for the exit. You take a step, your foot hitting... something that isn’t the floor.

You crouch down, picking up the soft fabric of the blanket and rubbing it in between your fingers. Why would he give you this if you’re just going to get arrested anyway? Seriously? It’s the middle of the fucking night, and... What.

You stop the clock up on the wall. The time reads 10am and... holy shit. You slept through the night.

He didn’t call the cops. 

Why the fuck didn’t he call the cops?

You slide back against the wall, collapsing on the ground with a dull thud. What the fuck was this feeling? It was probably gratitude, god knows you haven’t felt that in long enough. You turn your head, glancing at the door to the boy’s room. He had left it open. Why the hell did he trust you so much? It’s not like you’ve actually done anything to earn it. Unless, of course he had a thing for guys who break into his house and ruin his delicately cleaned room.

...You could be down with that.

You stand, stepping into his doorway, knocking on the wood. “You awake?”

He shifts underneath his blankets, and he opens one eye to look at you. His hair is disheveled, his natural grimace softened by sleep. “Yeah, I am. What do you want?” Even his yelling wasn’t really... yelling, anymore. It was more like an irritated growl. You shift on your feet, looking awkwardly at the ground.

“I just wanted to, uh, thank you, I guess. For not calling the cops. And for the blanket, I suppose.” He nods, sitting up in the bed, keeping the blanket wrapped around himself.

“It’s cool.” Surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything else. He just looks at you, expectantly, like he wanted you to say something else.

You shift on your feet again, keeping the blanket held in your fist. You glance nervously out into the hallway before speaking. “I think I’m gonna, uh, go now? I’ll get out of your hair. Sorry for the attempted robbery, by the way.”

He chuckles. The dude actually _chuckles_ at you. “You’re not going anywhere.” You freeze, the hair on the back of your neck raising up. Your defenses immediately come up around you, shielding your emotions as your poker face slides back into place. You guess he actually did call the cops.

“What do you mean? I’ll go home if I damn well please.” You try to take a step back, but the look he gives you stops you in your tracks. You speak slowly, trying to make sense of what was happening. “...What?”

“I said, you’re not going anywhere. At least until you tell me why the fuck you fell asleep in my hallway. That’s not usually something someone does when they’re robbing a house.”

You blink. Fucking logic. “...Oh. That. Yeah. Sorry about that...” 

He nods. “Whatever, just don’t fucking do it again.” He starts to stand, keeping the blanket wrapped around him, like a like the angriest little butterfly wrapped up in a fuzzy cocoon of don't fuck with me. “You should probably eat something. I don’t need any assholes starving in my house.”

“Uh. Sure?” Your confusion must have shown in the tone of your voice, because he snickers at you.

“While we’re eating you can explain to me what the fuck you were doing robbing my house.” You blush, and nod.

“Yeah. I think I can do that.”  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You’re currently sitting awkwardly at a table in the dining room of a house you attempted to rob last night. This is definitely not the way you imagined your day going. You were imagining something more along the lines of a stone cell and some cozy steel bars. The son of a dangerous mob boss is sitting at the table across from you, staring you down, watching you eat a poptart. This is also something you didn’t expect to happen.

You have the blanket you woke up in wrapped around your shoulders, the warmth bringing you comfort in this confusing and somewhat upsetting situation. You’re used to having people fear you, to call the cops and run, not wrap you in a blanket and give you food.

You set down the poptart, and take a look at him. He gestures for you to begin speaking. “Well,” you begin, “there’s not that much to say, really. My Bro is the head of this crime syndicate thing, and he sent me out to do a job on my own last night.” You chuckle sheepishly. “It didn’t work out very well.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you fell asleep in my hallway while you were supposed to be robbing my shit.” You’re slightly surprised by his calm demeanor, seeing as you were used to him ranting at you about your limited vocabulary. He already ranted at you about ‘appreciating the full spectrum of flavors in poptart culture'. 

"Oh. Well, I've kinda been working every night for the past month or so. I haven't been able to get more than about two hours of sleep, if that." You glance away, avoiding his sympathetic glance. You don't need anyone’s pity.

"Yeah, I get that. Dad used to force me to stay up while he and his buddies figured out who they were going to off next. That is, until I told him I didn't want a goddamned thing to do with the 'family business'." You look back over, an eyebrow raised.

"Seriously?" He gives you a look.

"Yeah. I may be sarcastic, but I don't lie." He leans in closer, a serious expression on his face. "Ever."

You nod, leaning back in your chair, taking another bite out of the pop tart. You choke as a sudden cracking noise comes from the living room.

"Dave!" ...Shit.

You groan, your forehead banging against the table. The other boy shoots you a look, both confused in a ‘who the hell just barged into my house’ way, and an ‘oh your name is dave’ way.

Your bro jumps into the kitchen, grabbing you out of the seat and holding you up, bridal style, screaming all the way. “Dearest brother! I have come to your rescue!” You haven’t been able to react, the surprise probably evident in your expression.

“Bro, cut it out!” You yell, trying to get out of his grasp. You look desperately over at the other, but he was smirking at you, an amused lilt to his own expression. “Dude, help?”

His grin widens. “Nope.” Your bro starts to carry you out of the room, running over to the front door... which had been broken down. You groan. Great, just more work for your ‘gracious host’. As you’re carried out of the door and down the street, you hear a shout behind you.

You turn your head, seeing him in his doorway. His scowl is back, and you smirk.

“By the way,” he starts, “If you even fucking care, the name’s Karkat!” You nod, aware that even if you yelled he wouldn’t be able to hear your very well.

Well, that sure settles one thing.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you just have to find a way to see him again. Soon.


	5. ==> Dave: Tell Him What Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave is expecting punishment and Bro is just a little bit too happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a short chapter omg  
> im sorry for the short chapter  
> ive been having writers block lately and i didnt want to keep yall waiting so just  
> here  
> take it
> 
> ill probably edit this and post a longer version later

Bro doesn’t question the friendly exchange as we carries you back to your apartment building, but you’re still really fucking surprised when he carries you the entire way up the sweltering eleven story climb up the stairs. When the fuck was he going to complain about the broken elevator?

...Probably never, knowing him.

He drops you onto the couch, before proceeding with his line of questioning. It mostly consisted of the usual questions, but there were a few that you were only sort of expecting. And they were somewhat intruding.

“So the window wasn’t plugged into the security system?”

“Nah. The kid probably disabled it or something, the dad was gone for the week.”

“And I noticed you chose brown sugar over strawberry poptarts? That is _not_ how I raised you.”

“Bro, that doesn’t really matter. I was having a conversation with the dude.”

“Was he hot?”

You think about that for a moment, not quite sure how to answer. “You saw him when you fucking abducted me, bridal style.”

“Yeah, but I was too busy ‘abducting you bridal style’ to notice his damn appearance. So, was he hot?”

You sigh, through with dodging the questions, and lay back against the couch. “...Yes.”

“Scale of one to ten.” He seemed way too fucking enthusiastic about this situation.

“I’m not answering that.”

“Suuuure you aren’t.”

“...eight point seven.”

He practically laughs, patting your shoulder before standing up again, stretching out his arms over his head. “‘Atta boy. So, what sorta loot did you actually grab from the place?”

You shrug. “Just this playing card thing.” You pull it out of your pocket, not having high hopes for your situation. You can feel the impending strife looming over your shoulder. After all, you went there for a job, and you come back with a shitty piece of flimsy plastic and a potential, though only slightly, friend. You hand it off to him, your expression clear.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Kid, I know for a fact that I taught you that when you go for the stuff, you go for the good stuff that... oh. Well.” He clears his throat, turning the card around in his hand, his expression suddenly happy, almost... gleeful.

“Bro, what are you so fucking enthusiastic about?” You stare up at him, genuinely confused. That was nowhere near the reaction you were expecting. In fact, it was the exact opposite.

He looks at you, the smile seeming distinctly out of place on his face, dotted with scars. “Dave, do you have any idea what you just put into my hands?” Your expression obviously says it all, because he rolls his eyes, crouching back down and holding it in front of your face. “ _This_ ,” he starts, waving it so a slight breeze parts your hair from your forehead, “Is a Midnight Crew Ace.”

You blink at him, not quite getting it. So it was a card named after some gang, big fucking whoop. “So?”

You can see him getting frustrated, standing again, shaking a bit. You can’t tell if it’s from excitement or because he has to shit himself. Maybe both. “ _Soooooo...._ ,” He chuckles, “This is a membership card to the Midnight Crew meetings. If you have one of these, they’ll let you in, no matter what it says on your ID.”

Your eyes widen, your mind immediately racing with the implications. This could be your chance. You could figure out their plans before they actually push them into motion, you could find a way to sabotage them. Your clients would pay you top dollar for it. And then...

You two would be set for life.

“So, are you going to eavesdrop on their next meeting?” You look up at him, the excitement clearly evident in your eyes, but he doesn’t comment. He smirks, practically leering at you, and you shudder slightly, waiting for him to answer.

He leans in close to your ear, his voice barely above a breath. You aren’t even sure you’ve heard him correctly. But if you did...

Holy shit.

“No, little man. You are.”


	6. ==> Karkat: Figure Out What the Fuck Just Happened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Besides, you two weren’t friends. He was just some asshole who broke into your home, trashed your room, wasted your Poptarts, and woke you up from a perfectly nice bout of sleep. The fact that he was uncannily gorgeous and had a voice like velvet didn’t affect how you were supposed to want to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from karkat's POV!
> 
> I am so, so sorry for not updating in... wow. Almost half a year. Only one day short of half a year.
> 
> I have no excuses, feel free to kill me.
> 
> I didn't edit this before I posted it, so there's bound to be a few issues. 
> 
> Does masturbation count as smut? Yeah, of course it does.

You’re vaguely aware that if the neighbors caught you standing in your pajamas in the doorway of your home, waving and yelling after a small fucker in douchey shades being carried off at breakneck speeds by a slightly larger fucker in even douchier shades, there would be quite a bit of confusion. Especially considering the fact that most of your neighbors were colleagues of Slick.

You have a vague feeling that he would most definitely _not_ be happy with the fact that, instead of ‘showing them your stabs’, you fed him one of your Poptarts and practically threw your identity in his face, not even making an attempt to kill them. Stupid, stupid Karkat. Can’t even make a friend without causing his inevitable demise.

Besides, you two weren’t friends. He was just some asshole who broke into your home, trashed your room, wasted your Poptarts, and woke you up from a perfectly nice bout of sleep. The fact that he was uncannily gorgeous and had a voice like velvet didn’t affect how you were supposed to want to kill him.

And the way his delicate hair just sort of whisper in front of his eyes as he slept wasn’t incredibly appealing, either. And the strength, obviously coiled in the sinewy muscles of his arms, didn’t make you slightly shaky on your feet, your min immediately imagining scenarios of calloused skin sweeping over your body, warm breath ghosting over your skin, and—

Wait, what the fuck?

You shake your head, trying to clear the image from your mind. That was. That was incredibly weird and uncalled for. There was absolute no way you were going to fucking… fucking _fantasize_ about the raging asshole who broke into your house and…

Didn’t take anything.

He didn’t take a thing.

Why the actual fuck did he go through the trouble of ruining your meticulously thought out placement of the objects in your room if he wasn’t even going to take anything? Honestly, there’s no way someone like that would just want to get under your skin.

In your skin.

All over your skin, Jesus Christ, it was like those lips were just made for kissing and nipping and biting. They were just so soft, did he fucking lotion his lips? Is that why he broke in, to try to replenish his stash of annoyingly attractive scents and girly lip-lotions? That was probably the reason. Aaaaand you’re _not_ thinking about this anymore, that’s not a thing that’s happening.

Now was probably a good time to go back inside and assess the damage before one of the Stabdads came by to see what all of the ruckus was about.

They didn’t call themselves the Stabdads, of course. That was just what the other ‘mafia kids’ called them. To be perfectly honest, Deuce and Droog and Boxcars weren’t actually that horrible. If anything, they were the ones keeping your Dad in check, making sure he didn’t just knife anything that made him unhappy.

You caught him stabbing a bush the other day. It’s better not to question his antics.

You sigh as you stumble around the kitchen, picking up the shiny Poptart wrappers and brushing the crumbs off your table.

The fucker ate your last Brown Sugar Poptart. If there was any reason to hate him more than you do already (Shut up, you totally hate him. No other feelings here.), then that would be it. You live for those damn Poptarts.

You pause in your cleaning, sitting down, suddenly imagining yet another annoyingly arousing scenario, and you couldn’t for the life of you get it out of your head. Do his lips still taste like cinnamon and brown sugar?

God Damnit. Did he slip something into your food? Is that what happened here? Some sort of scent-based aphrodisiac? Maybe he just excreted pheromones that kept you from being able to go through your daily life without imagining the feeling of those scars beneath your fingertips, the curiosity as to what color his eyes were, and—

You should really get to cleaning, huh? Tossing the dustpan to the floor, you stop your way up the stairs, as though the shocks jolting up your legs from the force would be enough to clear these… unwelcome (yeah, right) thoughts from your mind.

You hadn’t gotten a very good look at your room earlier, and you’re so, so glad you didn’t.

You stand in your doorway for a full five minutes before the force of the damage actually hits you.

Holy. Shit.

You immediately close the door, leaning back against the wooden paneling and sliding down to settle on the floor. That.

That was definitely a mess.

The rage is bubbling up in your chest, it was easy to feel that. But he just. That asshole didn’t clean up a single god damned thing. He just. Left it like that. Most of your electronics were smashed to bits against the wall (apparently your previous guess as to his activities wasn’t wrong), and your. Your books. It was the books that had you the most upset. They were /everywhere/.

Your classics, your romance novels, your science fiction fantasies, even your god damned biographies were scattered across the floor. Their bindings were most likes ruined, their immaculate pages bent and folded, the pages that hadn’t even been yellowing with age for long already scratched and marred by the carelessness of one burglar.

You want to scream. You want to cry out and attack someone. You want to take this ‘Dave’ guy, shove him up against a wall, and just. Just fucking go to town on him. You want to punch him in the face, the stomach, break his leg, hold him tightly and just kiss him everywhere. You want to scratch him and bite him and mar him and just make him realize just how much he fucked up. He fucked up, and you wanted to fuck him up, and—

When the hell did your hand get in your trousers?

Your mind had apparently drifted off during your tangent, and your body did the only thing it knew how to do with the mixed emotions you were giving it, the anger and the arousal together.

Your hand slithers into your boxers, and the thought that you’re _getting off on this_ , of all things, was almost disgusting to you. Not disgusting enough to stop, of course.

You palm slides around your hardening length, your eyes closing as you let your head bump against the doorframe. Letting your mind wander, you just go to town on yourself.

What would Dave even be like in bed? You like to imagine he would talk a lot, if only so you could gag him, muffle that annoyingly gorgeous voice of his. He would glare at you indignantly; try to spit the gag out. But you wouldn’t let him.

He’d want it too. You’re allowed to imagine that, it’s your own fucking fantasy. He’d be practically begging you at this point, his arms bound behind his back, shades tossed haphazardly across the room. You can’t see his eyes in this fantasy, though you want to imagine they’re intense. Even if they were an innocent, powder blue, he’d still manage to get an angry intensity into his gaze.

You’d smirk, your jeans already discarded, your thumbs hooked into the waistband of your boxers. “What?” You’d say, laughing quietly at his futile struggling. “Impatient already?” Cheesy porn lines are okay. This is a fantasy, they’re bound to happen.

You boxers are discarded along with your jeans, and his gag is undone, tossed to the floor. He takes a deep breath, and before he’s able to start rambling on about his precious virtue and how he’ll never be able to procure a dowry now, what will his family think, his honor as a bride will be tarnished, your dick is down his throat, and he moans around you, the vibrations exquisite against your flesh, and—

You’re jolted out of your fantasy suddenly, your muscles freezing up, before you collapse back against the door.

Well, shit.

That’s just one more mess you have to clean up today.

* * *

 

You still haven’t opened your bedroom door yet. It’s been three hours, three hours spent washing your pajamas to get rid of the evidence, taking a shower to at least attempt to rid yourself of whatever it was that made you so goddamned horny today, your skin tinted a slight pink from the scalding water and the roughness of your loofa.

Pink loofas are badass, don’t even try to lie to yourself. If you don’t use a pink loofa, you’re missing out on some amazing shit.

You suppose you can’t really blame yourself, though. You had spent the entire morning wallowing in sexual frustration and confusion. The release of all of that energy was bound to happen, though you hadn’t expected fantasy-you to be so… forceful.

Huh.

That was a pleasant surprise.

Currently, however, you’re settled down on your couch, playing through the events of the day in your mind. First, asshole breaks into your home. Second, asshole eats your apartment and is kidnapped by yet another asshole (Asshole #1’s guardian, maybe?). Third, you have a fantasy and masturbate to the thought of said asshole.

Fuck.

You groan, plopping your pillow down over your face and trying not to think about it anymore. You’re never even going to see this guy again, much less have him perform any sexual acts.

Hell, you’re never even going to get so much of a hug from the guy. The thought is a little saddening, though, that you’re never even going to feel the power behind those muscles. Then again, he sounded absolutely fucking terrified when you said Slick’s name, so. Hey. He might be from a rival mob. That would be cool, to have your next meeting be the one where you beat the shit out of him.

Both options sound equally appealing.

A sound from your phone startles you out of your reverie, the familiar _ping!_ of a Pesterchum notification. Maybe it’s Egbert again. You Dad’s had been friends for a while, and every couple of day’s he’ll invite you over for a marathon. You occasionally accept.

This chumhandle is unrecognized, though. Honestly, you’ve never even seen someone use such an unappealing shade of red.

You don’t have the faintest clue of who this could be.

\--turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG]!—

TG: sup shouty

\--carcinoGeneticist [CG] has blocked turntechGodhead [TG]!--


End file.
